


undo, edit

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: He has never used this ability, thispower—not with Root or Joss or Grace, not even with Nathan—but with the very real possibility of losingJohnat that moment, it isn’t even a decision anymore.It’sinstinct.





	undo, edit

 

 

“Goodbye, Harold.”

He has never used this ability, this _power_ —not with Root or Joss or Grace, not even with Nathan—but with the very real possibility of losing _John_ at that moment, it isn’t even a decision anymore.

It’s _instinct_.

Harold _screams._

“ _NO!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Harold, _wait_.”

He freezes, blinking at the familiar gold bars of the vault, and wonders why _this_ is the moment they have gone back to.

John is looking at him with pleading, despairing eyes, and Harold melts.  The bullet wound on his side is freshly dripping, and not caked and dry as it had been just a moment ago.

He ignores the stab of pain as he hobbles forward, and tremblingly closes his fingers over John’s.  

The grip is returned tightly.

“If we go on that rooftop together,” Harold whispers, “do you promise not to die?”

John steels his gaze, determined.

“I can’t.”

Harold swallows.  That’s not the answer he wants to hear.  He unlocks the vault, nevertheless.

They stand on the rooftop together.

“Goodbye, Harold,” John says, a contented smile on his face.  He steps in front of Harold and lifts his gun to face the battalion of Samaritan’s forces storming at them.

They open fire.

Harold _screams._

“ _NO!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Heard you guys could use some help.”

Harold whirls in surprise to find John looking at him in amused affection, despite the grimness of their situation.

“John,” Harold swallows, with some difficulty, his heart squeezing in pain with what he doesn’t want to ask.  “What about Dr. Campbell?”

John tilts his head and furrows his brows in confusion—an expression hilariously reminiscent of Bear.  “What about her?”

“We both know _that_ was going nowhere, Harry,” Root says dismissively as she punches in the code to get into the telephone substation.

“But what if it _was_ ,” Harold insisted, and thinking quickly, Harold makes up on the spot: “Samaritan has figured out Dr. Campbell’s connection to you.  She’s in danger right now.”

Both John and Root turn narrowed eyes at him.

“That’s not what the Machine has told me,” John says quietly.

“Nor me,” Root supplies, and Harold grits his teeth; this _isn’t_ the time for John and Root to suddenly be on the same page.

Harold plays his last ace.  “Are you willing to take that risk?” he challenges, and he knows it’s a dirty one; John can never bear the guilt of losing someone else he cares about.

He watches the way John’s face falls.

“You don’t want me here,” he declares, and his tone is one of abject _hurt_.

Harold’s heart clenches, because he wants to answer _yes_ , although not for the reason John believes.

It’s far, _far_ worse.

“Ms. Groves and I can handle things here,” he says instead with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“While I’m flattered to hear your faith in me, Harry, we really need to get inside before Samaritan finds us,” Root urges as she cracks the code and rushes inside, carrying the dripping ice bags.

Harold hesitates for a moment, cataloguing the look of absolute betrayal on John’s face and letting it stab into his heart, before he turns to follow Root.

“Go to Dr. Campbell, Mr. Reese,” Harold says evenly, even as his hands are shaking.  “She needs you more than I do.”

He resolutely closes the door, locking John out.

Later, as he watches Root bleeding out on the floor—another death he couldn’t stop—and looks at the barrel of a gun pointed over his face as he feels his own blood leave the multiple bullet wounds in his body, he sees the last flickering scene on the monitor that his dying Machine has pulled up to show him.

John is standing in front of a terrified Iris at her home, his gun raised as Samaritan’s men open fire.

Harold’s dying whisper gets caught in his throat.

“ _No…_ ”

 

* * *

 

Harold stares at John, the phone he’s offering between them a silent entreaty.  

John’s eyes are a maelstrom of emotions, fearful hope warring with determination.

“It’s not just about the numbers, Harold,” he whispers.  “It’s about survival.”

 _Yes,_ Harold thinks desperately, _especially yours._

Something breaks in John’s gaze—and his voice.  “I can’t do this without you, Harold.”

“Then don’t,” Harold whispers, feeling his heart crack.  “ _Please_.”

John’s gaze hardens.  “I can’t do that either,” he growls.

Harold squeezes his eyes shut.  “Then… I’m sorry,” he says, the sincerity of it deeper than John can ever imagine—a gaping hole in Harold’s chest, a yawning cavern that threatens to swallow him whole.  “I… I have to go, Detective.”

John presses his lips together and holds out Bear’s leash.  Harold shakes his head remorsefully.

“You need him more than I do,” he says sadly, and walks away.

It’s a week later when Lionel storms Professor Whistler’s office.  Harold has never seen him look so angry—nor have all that rage directed at _him_.

Lionel throws down a couple of folders on Professor Whistler’s desk, startling Harold.

“I thought they mattered to you,” Lionel hisses fiercely, every word dripping with contempt and disgust.  “Clearly they were mistaken in believing you won’t let them down.”

Harold’s heart hammers wildly against his chest as Lionel pauses at the entryway, hands clenched tightly into fists.

“I thought you were a good man,” Lionel says quietly.  “Clearly, I was mistaken too.”

Lionel’s footsteps have faded down the hall before Harold manages to snap out of his stupor.  Shakily, he reaches out a trembling hand and opens the case files.

The photographs of Sameen’s and John’s bodies taken at the morgue are on top of the pile.

Harold lets his face falls into his hands as he sobs uncontrollably.

“ _No,_ ” he cries, bitter tears dripping between his fingers.  “ _No…”_

 

* * *

 

“ _There’s still one thing left in Pandora’s Box.  Hope._ ”

Harold watches John’s retreating form for a long time.  He’s grateful for the way John doesn’t look back.  It’ll make this easier.

Root picks up immediately on the first ring.   _“Harry?  Are you okay?”_

“I’m fine, Ms. Groves,” Harold answers absently, distracted in such a way that he feels disassociated from his own body.  In a way, he already is.  “But… there is one thing I want to ask of you.  And the Machine.”

There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line.   _“It’s about John, isn’t it,”_ Root says finally.

She and the Machine know him all too well.  “This new cover identity of his,” Harold says slowly.  “Can you make it so that he’ll be sent… away?”  

Beside him, Bear gives a pitiful whine, as if he suddenly understands he won’t ever see his other master again.  

“ _Away_ ,” Root repeats dubiously.

“Italy will do it, I think,” Harold murmurs.  “He has… always wanted to go there.”

Again, Root pauses.  “ _He came back,_ _though,”_ she says, surprisingly gentle.  “ _For you_.”

Harold’s chest swells and aches.  It feels close to bursting.

This must be what a heart attack feels like.

“And now he has to leave again,” Harold manages to choke out through a suddenly constricted throat.  “For me.”

“ _Understood_ ,” Root says, and Harold has never heard such sadness from her.

Understandably, the minute John lands in Italy, where he’s assigned as Detective Riley, he figures out exactly what’s happening, and hops on the next flight back to New York.

Samaritan instantly detects the deviant behaviour, and sends the plane crashing to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Harold watches John talking to the pretty, petite stewardess, and finds himself hit with sudden longing at the smile he sees on John’s face.

John chooses that moment to look up, and catches Harold’s gaze from across the cobbled street.  

Something unspoken passes between them, as palpable as electric heat.  

John steps forward.

Harold steps back.

John’s eyes widen.  He raises his hand, as if reaching out to Harold at that moment, trying to hold on.

Harold suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.  He swiftly turns around and hobbles away from the cafe as fast as he can.  He can feel John’s gaze like a brand on his back.

John doesn’t follow him.  

Harold leaves Italy without him.

A month later, Sameen walks up to him in the library, and grimly, wordlessly hands him an obituary.

John has never coped well with losing Jessica.  Without Harold there with him—without a purpose to tether him—he has now finished what he started in that grief.

This time, over Joss.

The newspaper crumples in Harold’s grip, the ink blurring with tearstains.

It isn’t even John’s real name.

 

* * *

 

“It’s so adorable how John follows you around like that,” Root coos, and the remark isn’t even mocking—at least, not completely.  “I wish _I_ had a pet,” she muses.

Harold’s hands freeze over the junction box.  Shakily, he steals a glance at the commotion going on below, and finds John and Sameen fighting off Decima’s men.

He wonders at the ironic foreshadowing of Root’s statement, because her own future “pet” is fighting alongside _his_.

And now she’ll never know what it’s like.

Harold swallows the guilt, bitter as bile in his throat.

He thinks of their cold bodies on a slab in those photographs, and grimly, resolutely closes the junction box.

The phone booth on their floor rings, and Root rushes to answer it happily, giddily.

The phone booth below never does.

Later, as he struggles to keep up with Root, she stops in her tracks and tilts her head to one side, listening.

Her shoulders slump, and she sighs deeply.

“I’m sorry, Harold.”

She turns to face Harold with the best approximation of sympathy she can manage.  

It isn’t even completely fake.

Root smiles at him sadly.  “Looks like you’re gonna have to find yourself a new pet.”

 

* * *

 

“I woke up this morning and felt—it took me a while to put my finger on it—but I felt _happy._ ”

It feels like a punch to the gut, and Harold can’t breathe, can’t even _think._

John is looking like him like he’s John’s whole _world._

“Must be this job,” John says softly, each word a stroke, feather-light, on Harold’s skin.

Harold feels his legs weaken and nearly give out, wanting to fall to his knees right then and there before John, to clutch at him and shamelessly beg: _Then stay.  Stay, and don’t get yourself killed._

Instead, he manages to give John a watery smile and whisper, “Well… I’m glad.”

John’s eyes go impossibly tender, the caress of his gaze… frighteningly more intimate with each passing moment, reaching deep inside Harold’s soul.

Harold clears his throat.  “You go on ahead, Mr. Reese.  I’ll catch up with you.  I… I just need to make a phone call.”

The moment breaks and passes, and while John’s soft gaze on him never wavers, his nod of acquiescence says he’s back to being Harold’s employer—for the meantime.

Bear looks up at Harold questioningly as soon as John disappears down the stairs.

“ _Carter._ ”

Harold takes a deep breath.  “Detective.”

There’s a resigned sigh—amused and affectionate—on the other end of the line.  “ _Yes, Finch, Cal is treating me just fine, so would you mind tuning out on our next dates?”_

Harold smiles, tremblingly.  “Noted, Detective.  And I’m truly happy for you too.  But that’s not the reason why I’m calling.”

Joss’ tone suddenly turns serious, business-like.  “ _What do you need me to do?_ ”

He can barely think over the ringing of his ears, the thunderous beating of his heart against his ribcage.  “I need you to arrest the Man In A Suit.”

The silence at the end of line seems to go on forever.  

“ _You’re betraying John_ ,” Joss says quietly.  It’s more damning than an accusation.

It feels like an execution.

Harold doesn’t know how he still manages to speak.  Even his mouth is quivering so violently.

“I’m saving him,” is all he’s able to say.

Joss hangs up on him.  He can feel her repulsion hanging in the air.

Later, Agent Donnelly intercepts John at the bank, long before he’s able to clear Abby and Shaun.  In transit to Rikers, Kara Stanton finds them first.

Harold never gets there on time.

The explosion kills Joss, too.

 

* * *

 

Root leans down before him, her beautiful face marred with fresh blood, a maniacal, psychotic glint clouding what used to be her clear brown eyes.

“I am the best friend, the best support, the best partner you will ever have,” Root croons sweetly, sickeningly.  “And _definitely_ the most fun.”

Dehydration, exhaustion, blood loss, and hunger mixes with his now unmedicated and untreated chronic pain; yet amidst the toxic, excruciatingly painful haze, he manages to give his most seething glare to the woman who will now never be his friend.

“No,” he bites out acerbically.  “You’re worse than Weeks.  You’re worse than all of them.”

He inhales deeply, the expansion in his lungs shooting pain down his spine, and thinks of John running after him, chasing after him like this, over and over again.

He steels himself, and forces himself to say the words he doesn’t mean, hoping that someday, someone else will lead Root into the light.

“You are what’s wrong with humanity, Root.  You are the one… that’s bad code.”

For a split second, Root looks devastated—like her whole world is crumbling before her.

Then her gaze sharpens into something lethal and familiar.

Harold finds himself looking into the eyes of a true cold-blooded killer.

(John eventually finds Harold’s lifeless body next to Denton Weeks’.  Harold never finds out how John burns down every single city on his path to hunt down Root.  He never finds out how many people John kills unthinkingly and ruthlessly on the way until he eventually comes to a head with Root—who has been waiting for him all along.

He never finds out how the two people who have only ever wanted nothing more than to be by his side eventually kill each other.)

 

* * *

 

“I’m not here to rest, am I?”

The playful, teasing lilt of John’s voice, the hopeful, _eager_ look in his eyes, the immediate softening of his battered, bone-tired body… it all makes Harold feel too much like a fraud.

“I’m afraid this is where our partnership ends, Mr. Reese.”

Instantly, whatever light John has been emitting is snuffed out, like a candle in a gust of wind.

“I don’t get the joke, Finch,” John snarls, like a vicious dog whose offered treat is suddenly stolen from him.

Harold has never been afraid of John— _never_ —but he is now thoroughly frightened of his quiet anger, because it’s all directed at _him._  

It’s justified, Harold tries to tell himself, and deserved, but not for the reasons John believes.  

Harold enables that mistaken belief anyway.

He puts on his most convincing front of an arrogant billionaire—his Partridge persona—and casually gestures at John’s current predicament.  “You’re useless like this.”

John looks like he’s been hit by a bullet again, before his features harden.  He furiously wheels his chair forward.

“I can get better, Finch.  Just… give me time to rest.”

Harold’s mask nearly falls apart at the plea behind the determination.  He turns, as swiftly as his leg can allow him, and grabs at his coat, before his real emotions shine through.

He makes one final, vicious jab.

“I don’t need a liability in the field like you.”

He opens the door to the apartment.

“ _Harold_.”

It’s not the way John says his name hoarsely that stops him in his tracks.

It’s the raw pain behind it.

Harold’s shoulders sag, suddenly tired of all the pretence, the pretending.

“John,” he whispers in turn.  He faces John again, and Harold knows by the widening of John’s eyes that he isn’t fooling him anymore—who can fool an international spy like _John Reese_ after all—so Harold settles for the truth.

“You can rest, _permanently_ ,” Harold says, and oh how the tables have turned, as this time, _he’s_ the one begging.  “You can finally have peace, like this.  Money won’t ever be an issue, I promise you.  And I’ll make sure no one ever comes after you again.”

John’s eyes narrow challengingly.  “And what about _you_?”

Harold is startled at the unexpected question.  He swallows and averts his gaze.

“I’ve always been alone, Mr. Reese.  I’ll survive.”

He moves to leave.

“I don’t need peace, Finch,” John calls from behind him, the wheels of his chair squeaking in his haste to move.  “I need a purpose.”

Harold determinedly hobbles down the hallway, struggling to catch the elevator.

“I need _you._ ”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

Slowly, Harold turns around to look at John once more.

John is pale and sweating profusely, chest heaving from exertion, but his hands are gripping the wheels of his chair tightly, ready to chase after Harold, as he always does.

“Goodbye, John,” Harold whispers as the elevator doors slide close.

Over the course of the following days, Harold tries his very best to cover his trail, but protecting John proves impossible when the bull-headed man is determined to forego his own safety just to _find_ him.

Harold tries his best, he truly does—but the CIA finds John first.

Mark Snow finishes what he has started.

 

* * *

 

Harold never tells John about the Eggs Benedict.  He walks away.  He never calls him again.

Snow finds John much too soon.

John’s body is never found.

 

* * *

 

“Mister… Harris, is it?”

John is visibly startled, then instantly suspicious and threatening when he rounds on Harold.

He immediately puts his hands up to placate John, who’s vibrating with controlled violence.  Maybe he shouldn’t have used John’s _real_ name to get his attention.  “I recognise you from the photos,” Harold improvises quickly, and puts on his most innocent smile—Nathan’s harmless IT guy.  “I’m a friend of Jessica’s.”

John relaxes, but his eyes remain narrowed.  “I don’t think she’s ever mentioned you,” he says slowly.

Harold’s smile tightens.  “I’m a very private person,” he manages to say.

John cocks his head thoughtfully.  “What are you doing here?”

Harold brightens.  “Oh, I’ve come to pick up Jessica.  Her flight’s been delayed, it was supposed to arrive a couple of hours ago.”  He makes a show of peering up at the screens.  “I think it has finally landed.”

Harold doesn’t miss the way John’s eyes widen and quickly scan their surroundings.

“She’s here?” John breathes, and Harold’s heart tightens at the pure wonder and joy radiating from John.  “Jess is here?”

“Yes,” Harold says with a smile as John turns to face him again; the happiness in his eyes takes so many years off, and John looks impossibly _young_.  “And… Mr. Harris?”

“Hmmm?” John smiles back, and against his will, Harold’s heart flutters.

“When she arrives, ask her to wait for you,” Harold says softly.  “I have it on good authority that she will.”

Harold sees the wedding announcement three weeks later.  He runs his fingers over the screen, tracing John’s radiant smile.

“Stay happy, John,” Harold murmurs, before turning off his computer, permanently.

He stops building the Machine.

He never sees Peter Arndt’s Number come up when he breaks into the Harris’ home, seeking revenge.

None of their Numbers come up.

And contrary to what John has once believed… he does get buried under his real name.

 

* * *

 

His heart is pounding against his chest.  He has forgotten the rush of love at first sight.

He takes a deep breath and gathers all his courage.  “Hello.”

Grace looks up from her painting, looks at the vanilla ice cream cone being offered in the middle of January, and gives him a smile that can stop the world.

“Hello,” she says softly.

Later, as they sit side by side at the park, eating their respective ice cream cones in comfortable, companionable silence, Harold can’t help but look his fill.

There is absolutely no art in the world that can ever compare to Grace’s beauty, inside and out—no poetry that can ever accurately describe it, no music that can ever capture how it feels to be with her.

He loves her.  Even now, he loves her.  So much it _hurts_.

Grace turns to him then, and Harold’s heart leaps, as it always does, with her.

He misses her so much.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she offers gently.

He looks at the melting ice cream dripping down to his fingers.  He licks them clean as Grace waits patiently.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, suddenly: “What do you do when every decision you’ll ever make, or _don’t_ make, will always result in someone’s death?”

He belatedly realises the morbidity of his question, and quickly looks up, afraid of what he’ll see—but Grace is only looking at him thoughtfully.

Waiting.

Harold swallows.  “Someone you love, very much.  More than your own life.”

Grace’s gaze softens.  “Are you writing a story?”

Harold hesitates, and thinks of John’s smile, his _happiness_.  “Of a sort,” he says quietly.

Grace nods, and doesn’t say anything for a while as she finishes her cone.  Harold eats silently along with her.

“The way I see it,” Grace says suddenly, “everybody dies in the end, anyway.”

Harold is startled, and looks at her with wide eyes.

“But the ephemerality of life is exactly what makes it precious.”  Her gaze is somewhere faraway, her voice tender and melancholy.  “It reminds you to never take any moment for granted, knowing it might be your last.”

Grace turns to smile at him.  Harold stops breathing.  She’s _breathtaking._

“Harold,” she says, each word gentle and full of love, “don’t be so preoccupied with death that you forget what it’s like to live.”

She reaches out to touch his cheek.  His own hand flies up to clutch at hers and keep it pressed to his skin.

“This person you love,” Grace says, with a knowing look, “make this person’s life worth living.  With you.”

Harold shudders.  “My dearest Grace,” he says tremblingly amidst the sudden blurring of his vision, and speaks his truth.  “You are the most beautiful person I know.”

“And you, Harold,” Grace murmurs as both her hands reach up to wipe away his tears, “are the kindest.”

 

* * *

 

“Try the Eggs Benedict, Mr. Reese,” Harold offers as he taps at the menu and slides it toward John.  “I’ve had them many times.”

He bites back a smile at the startled, pleased look in John’s eyes.  They narrow a little, playfully, as he moves to open the menu—and John breaks out into a genuine grin when he sees _nothing_ inside.

“And if you want, Mr. Reese,” Harold hesitates for a moment before plunging in, “we can have breakfast together from now on.”

John looks at him then— _really_ looks at him—and Harold tries his damnedest not to fidget under the heat and intensity of John’s gaze.

“I’d like that, Harold,” John rasps softly.  “I’d like that very much.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not here to rest, am I?”

“Oh you are, Mr. Reese,” Harold says dryly, “and I’ll be here the entire time to make sure that you do.”

John doesn’t even bother to hide the unbridled affection and raw gratitude in his gaze, and Harold has to look away then; he can feel himself flushing heatedly.

“What about the Numbers that come up?” John drawls.

“I have Detectives Carter and Fusco on call,” Harold answers.  “In fact, they’re working on one right now.  Ernest Trask, I believe is his name.”

John’s eyebrows rise.  “You got them working together?” he asks dubiously.

Harold can’t help the playfulness he injects in his tone.  “Without their knowledge.”

John grins.  “That’ll be fun to watch.”

“Indeed,” Harold smiles, and signals to their server.  “Would you care for another mimosa, John?  Or perhaps a glass of sangria?”

John chuckles.  “Brunch and drinks at a private island.  Are you sure you can afford this kind of luxury, Harold?”

“Of course I can,” Harold says dismissively.  “After all, I own the island.”

 

* * *

 

“Asimov,” Harold sighs as he picks up the battered first-edition, still wet with canine drool.  “He has expensive taste.”

He looks down at an eager-looking Bear, trying and failing to suppress the rush of affection, knowing that this gigantic, bear-sized dog will wriggle his way into his heart soon—at a rate much faster than even John, Harold thinks in amusement.  “I’m sure we’ll get along.”

He looks up and sees John watching them knowingly with a soft smile on his face, and Harold is reminded, suddenly, of exactly how they have come to be here.

“Mr. Reese,” he begins, ‘ _I owe you a debt’_ on the tip of his tongue, and instead what he ends up saying is: “Thank you for saving me.”

Their gazes hold, and Harold realises that he means every word, deeper and beyond what has happened today.

It’s John who has saved him from the very beginning, from his own crippling loneliness.

Something breaks in John’s gaze—a barrier he’s been keeping up for so long.

“Always, Harold,” John says roughly as he strides forward.  “ _Always._ ”

Asimov clatters to the floor, and Bear tilts his head in avid curiosity at the two men clutching each other and gasping into each other’s mouths.

Root calls.  John never answers.

 

* * *

 

“I woke up this morning and felt—it took me a while to put my finger on it—but I felt _happy._ ”

Harold’s breath is stolen from him as John hauls him forward by his lapel, kissing him breathless.

“Must be this job,” John whispers against Harold’s lips as soon as he releases him, unable to anymore ignore the need for air.

“Not that I don’t recognise the urgency of Abby’s predicament,” Harold manages to say, his voice still damningly breathy, “but this seems like the perfect moment to show you this.”

Curiosity winning over his unwillingness to release Harold, John watches as Harold putters around his desk until he finds what he’s looking for.

It’s John, now, who seems to have stopped breathing when he sees the small jewellery box Harold is holding in the palm of his hand.

Shyly, Harold looks up at John from beneath the rim of his glasses as he opens the box, showing a nondescript, plain black titanium ring.  “It has a tracker in it,” he explains nervously, “so I never have to wonder where you are.  I’ll always find you.”  Harold smiles tremblingly.  “And it can also detect the slightest change in your pulse or the chemical compounds in your sweat, so it’ll alert me if you’re in any physical danger, or if your health has somehow made a turn for the worse.”

John is still staring at him, not saying anything, not _doing_ anything, and Harold, suddenly afraid that he has it all _wrong,_ begins to backtrack.  

“Of course, I understand completely if this seems like a complete breach of your privacy, which I still do respect despite the fact that we—that you and I are—lovers, though I detest the term, and perhaps _partners_ is more apt, because I have never seen you as anything other than my equal, and—”

“ _Harold._ ”

Harold swallows, ignoring the deafening, thunderous beating of his heart.  “Yes, John?”

John steps forward, a slow smile spreading across his face, bright and radiant, like the first rays of sunlight after a prolonged, devastating storm.

“Do you happen to have a pair for that ring?”

Harold blinks, processing the question bewilderedly for a moment, until he realises exactly what John is asking.

He swallows, this time against a lump in his throat, as he fights the happy stinging at the corners of his eyes.  

He shakily raises his left hand to show that he’s already wearing it.

“Yes, John.  I do.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s so adorable how John follows you around like that, I wish _I_ had a pet.”

Harold’s hands freeze over the junction box.  They ball into fists.

Slowly, he stands up to his full height and looks at Root straight in the eye, making her pause in a mixture of admiration and fear.

“He’s not my pet,” Harold declares quietly.  “He’s my _partner._ ”

 

* * *

 

John chooses that moment to look up, and catches Harold’s gaze from across the cobbled street.  

Something unspoken passes between them, as palpable as electric heat.  

John steps forward.

Harold opens his arms.

“Come home, John,” he whispers, and catches John as he falls.

 

* * *

 

“ _The Machine has set up your new identities as a domestic couple,”_ Root is saying in their earpieces as John quickly drives them away from the Library, where Samaritan’s operatives have just broken in.  “ _Since you already have the matching rings to support that kind of cover.”_ Her tone turns dry.  “ _You even have a dog together.”_

“Where’s our new address?” John asks, his gaze focused on the road.

“ _You have a fully-furnished house by the suburbs, Detective Riley.”_

“ _What?_ ” Sameen yells on the other end of the line.  “ _John’s a damn_ cop _?_   _Why isn’t_ he _the one stuck in retail hell_?”

Harold watches the amusement and curiosity flicker over John’s face as he further questions: “And where will I be driving my fine young husband to work in the morning?”

“John _,”_ Harold admonishes sternly, not quite comfortable with how they’re all so cavalier about their impending doom.

Root, however, seems to match John’s mirth.  “ _You shall be dropping off Professor Whistler at the university tomorrow, Detective._ ”

John smirks at Harold’s look of horror.  Teaching is _not_ his strong suit, as evidenced by the _last_ time he did—never mind that he had been able to save Caleb Phipps’ life in doing so.

“What about you and Ms. Shaw?” Harold asks, suddenly worried.  “Will both of you be safe?”

Before Root can answer, however, John makes an excellent suggestion.

“Maybe Shaw should marry you too, Sam.”

There’s a significant, weighted pause on the other end of the line.  Harold bites his lip to keep himself from grinning.

“ _I’ll ask her,_ ” Root muses thoughtfully.

John laughs as Sameen sputters indignantly in the background.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not just about the numbers, Harold,” John whispers.  “It’s about survival.”

Harold presses his lips together and determinedly closes his fingers over the phone, infinitely grateful for Ali Hasan’s mesh network.

John lets out the breath he’s been holding, visibly and thoroughly relieved.  He glances up at the camera trained over both of them in the park.

He slides over closer to Harold and drapes an arm around him.  Harold raises an eyebrow at him questioningly.  John smirks, and dips his head to whisper straight into Harold’s ear.

“You know, _Professor,”_ John rumbles silkily, making Harold shiver, “we should sell our covers more convincingly.”

It really isn’t appropriate for him to be turned on in such a public place.  “I beg your pardon?” Harold manages to breathily ask.

He can feel the curve of John’s smile against his neck.  “I mean, we haven’t exactly been paragons of public displays of affection,” John says huskily as he nips at Harold’s earlobe, making him swallow back a moan.  “I’d hate for Samaritan to think we’re not that into each other.”

John pulls back, and Harold doesn’t know whether to be wary of or be smug about the heated, heavy-lidded gaze trained on _him._

“What do you say, _Professor_?” John’s voice drops to its lowest register, and Harold doesn’t know how his husband manages to make the title sound so _lewd._ “Why don’t we give a couple of voyeuristic ASI’s a show they’ll never forget?”

“Your kinks are showing, _Detective_ ,” Harold hisses back, despite certain parts of his anatomy stirring at the thrilling idea.  “Also, we’ll be arrested for public indecency.  We’ll never hear the end of it from Detective Fusco.”

The grin that breaks over John’s face is absolutely _filthy._

“Even better,” John growls as he swings his leg over and straddles Harold right there on the park bench.

 

* * *

 

“I know I was upfront about the risk that we’d be running, but—”

“Forget about it, Harold,” John cuts him off, tone and gaze equally soft.  “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

Root turns away, giving them a moment of privacy.

Harold rushes forward and kisses John hungrily, pouring his entire soul into their connection, feeding John’s starving heart.

“You are my connection to the world,” Harold fiercely declares, cupping John’s face between both of his hands, willing him to believe every word.  “You made me different.  You made me _better_.”

John’s face crumples.  “ _Harold,”_ he gasps, and Harold _understands_.

“I love you too,” he whispers ardently.  “ _Go_.”

John straightens into the soldier he always has been. He cocks his weapon, and makes his final vow.

“I won’t let them take you away from me.”

 

* * *

 

They stand on the rooftop, face-to-face.

John reaches for him, palm open, inviting.

“Together?” he asks softly.

In the background, Samaritan’s operatives have burst through the door and have trained their weapons on them both.

Harold doesn’t look at them.  Instead, he looks at the one person he loves above all, without any regret in his heart.

He takes John’s hand.

“ _Always_.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the fandom that saved me.
> 
> Happy Holidays, Team POI. :)


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